In LOTR with Harry Potter system

"Sylas! Lend me Brisingr!"

Gandalf's voice rang out urgently across the battlefield as Glorfindel faltered under the might of Sauron's dark assault.

Without hesitation, Sylas reached into his enchanted satchel and drew forth the Brisingr. The blade faintly glowing with dormant fire. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed it toward the Grey Wizard.

Gandalf caught it midair. The moment his fingers closed around the hilt, the sword ignited with solar fire, its blade bursting into brilliant golden flames, radiant and searing like the heart of the sun. The mere presence of the blade burned away lingering tendrils of darkness.

He rose to his full height.

"You shall not prevail!" Gandalf roared, his voice filled with divine power. "I am a servant of the Secret Fire, wielder of the Flame of Anor! Go back to the void! You shall not pass!"

The blazing sword cleaved through curses and shadows alike, forcing Sauron's flame and smoke to retreat. Sparks clashed with shadow in midair, holy fire contending with the infernal fires of Mordor.

Radagast rose beside him, battered but resolute. "May the Valar guide our hands and cast out this evil!" he shouted. His staff flared with light, releasing a cascade of white radiance that swept across the battlefield like a cleansing tide.

Together, Gandalf, Glorfindel, and Radagast stood against Sauron.

The clash shook the very foundations of Dol Guldur. Cracks spiderwebbed across its stone walls, towers toppled, and the dark sky churned with fire and lightning.

Meanwhile, Sylas made a choice.

He was the least powerful among them, and he knew it. Charging into the center of the battle would only burden his allies. Instead, he turned his focus where it mattered most, the Nazgûl.

"Lord Elrond! I'll keep the Nazgûl occupied. Go help Gandalf and the others!"

Elrond, sword dripping with wraith-ichor, nodded sharply and spun away, breaking through the ring of wraiths. With swift grace, he raced across the battlefield and leapt into the fray, joining the charge against Sauron.

And Sylas was left alone.

Nine Nazgûl turned toward him, dark hoods swirling, Morgul blades raised high. Their forms flickered like candle shadows—undying, relentless.

The battle resumed.

Sylas summoned his giant owl Patronus, whose silver light flared against the darkness like a beacon. The radiant owl dove at the wraiths, slashing and harassing, forcing them to split and scatter.

But the Nazgûl weren't mindless.

They quickly saw through his tactics, he was buying time, keeping them from reinforcing their master.

And so, they adjusted.

Five Nazgûl surged upward, entangling the owl in a whirlwind of curses and shadow blades.

The other four came for Sylas.

He saw them charging, cloaks rippling like banners of doom.

Still, he did not flinch.

He gripped Aeglos, the divine spear of the High Elves, and braced himself for the assault.

From his pocket, four glints of light shot forth, too fast to follow.

Four daggers.

They struck the charging Nazgûl before they could even lift their blades. The weapons tore into their incorporeal forms, cutting through shadow like starlight through mist.

The wraiths staggered back, shrieking in agony.

The Nazgûl let out painful screams; their spirit bodies were severely damaged, and the Dark Arts on them were dispelled by the daggers.

Their shadowy forms twisted violently, contorting in agony, then collapsed inward with a sickening implosion. A heartbeat later, they exploded, releasing a massive shockwave that shattered the nearby stonework and leveled what remained of the ancient walls.

The blast sent dust and debris flying across the battlefield.

These were no ordinary weapons.

The four daggers, glowing faintly with silver runes, hovered protectively around Sylas. He knew now: they were forged long ago by the Northern Dúnedain in the crypts of the Barrow-downs, crafted specifically to strike down the servants of Mordor. Their blades carried ancient enchantments designed to disrupt necromantic power and tear through shadow-flesh.

And here, against the Nazgûl, they worked perfectly.

The four wraiths were not only destroyed, but unrevivable, their connection to the Eye of Mordor temporarily severed.

Sylas could breathe again. The pressure lifted.

The five remaining Nazgûl wavered in the sky, circling warily. They watched the glowing daggers with real fear, their shrouded forms hissing and twitching as if instinctively recoiling from the weapons.

Even the Eye of Mordor took notice.

High above, the fiery vertical eye rotated, and fixed itself upon Sylas. Its slit pupil narrowed, a ripple of black energy rolling outward like a tide.

Then came the voice, echoing directly in his soul.

"I see you, young wizard… I know who you are. You slew my servants in the forest, defied my minions in the dark. But I see your truth now. Your hunger… your desire for strength… the power you pretend not to crave."

The voice wrapped around him like a noose, velvet and venomous.

"I can grant you that power. I will teach you to forge Rings of Power. You will command armies, bend kings to your will. Immortality, domination, all of it can be yours. Just submit."

Sylas staggered.

He clutched his wand with a trembling hand, the edges of his vision flickering with shadow. Dark emotions surged within him, envy, wrath, ambition. They weren't foreign. They were real. His.

Around his wrist, the braided hair of Galadriel flared brightly, its glow forming a silver ward that shielded his mind. But even its light began to flicker under the storm of darkness pressing in.

His thoughts spiraled.

Visions filled his mind, visions not his own: Sylas kneeling before Sauron, a Ring of Power on his hand, commanding armies of orcs and dragons, ruling from a throne of flame…

The Eye above him flashed with mockery, as if already certain of its victory.

He clenched his jaw.

A scream rose inside him, not of fear, but of rage. Rage at being manipulated. Rage at being seen as weak.

An endless surge of unwillingness and anger rose in Sylas's heart, and a crazy idea formed in his consciousness as his defenses gradually retreated.

Now his mind was filled with negative emotions due to the influence of Sauron's evil power.

So why didn't he use these emotions to turn the tables?

In an instant, the contents of "Advanced Dark Arts" he had read before flashed through his mind, becoming clearer than ever.

He raised his wand, aimed it at the Eye of Mordor, immersed himself in negative emotions, transforming them into endless malice, retaining only a final shred of clarity, and then shouted as if venting:

"Avada Kedavra!"

In an instant, a dazzling green light, emanating an aura of extreme darkness, destruction, and devastation, illuminated the clouds above, striking the Eye of Mordor with ill omens and curses.

A piercing, unholy scream echoed across the ruined fortress.

Sauron, locked in battle with Gandalf, Elrond, Radagast, and Glorfindel, froze mid-strike. His shadow-armored form twisted violently, as if his very essence had been stabbed.

The spells around him collapsed. The weaving of Dark Arts broke apart like threads cut by a blade. The sky flickered. The heat died.

His armor spasmed and buckled under invisible pressure.

And then—

Elrond moved.

With the precision of a warrior-king and the fury of a High Elf, he summoned all his remaining strength. Light surged through him as he drove his blade upward, into the hollow helm of Sauron.

There was no blood. There was no scream. Only a burst of darkness torn asunder, like a shadow unraveling in the wind.

Sauron's towering body disintegrated, his form scattering into ash, smoke, and roaring flame. His spirit retreated, vanishing into the burning Eye above as a desperate refuge.

The Eye of Mordor, suspended high in the air, flickered and dimmed. Its fiery radiance faltered. The power it once radiated now pulsed weakly, like a wounded beast.

Around it, the choking Dark Arts lost cohesion. The corrupted spells that had blanketed the battlefield weakened, their grip loosening.

Gandalf, Glorfindel, Radagast, and Elrond pressed the attack.

Their combined magic surged forward, holy flame, elven light, wind, and earth, battering the Eye of Mordor from all sides. Under their relentless assault, the Eye began to recede, the flames pulling inward, its form shrinking like a dying star.

But even as its light faded, its voice remained.

A deep, arrogant growl, echoing inside the minds of all who stood below.

"You cannot destroy me. You cannot stop what is eternal. Darkness will return."

Then, in a final burst of fury, the Eye of Mordor exploded outward in a storm of black fire.

A wall of demonic flame blasted from it, forcing back the four warriors. They braced behind shields of light and willpower, barely withstanding the inferno.

The five remaining Nazgûl were drawn upward, pulled into the Eye like shadows returning to their source. Their bodies melted into smoke and vanished into the burning pupil.

The sky darkened once again.

A chant began, low and terrible.

In the Black Speech, ancient and cursed, it echoed around the broken fortress like a prophecy.

"Three Rings for the Elven-kings under the sky. Seven for the Dwarf-lords in their halls of stone. Nine for Mortal Men doomed to die—"

Inside the Eye, ghostly visions of the Nine Rings of Men appeared, followed by three worn and damaged Dwarven Rings.

"One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them, One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them…"

"The One Ring shall be mine!"

...

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